


You can remain unaware (if you want)

by harryanthus



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Friends to Lovers, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oblivious Louis Tomlinson, Original Character(s), Slow Build, Song: Always You (Louis Tomlinson), Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tags Are Hard, Tumblr: wallsficfest (One Direction), Weddings, title from a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryanthus/pseuds/harryanthus
Summary: And Harry smiled revealing a dimple on his milky cheeks and Louis was helplessly endeared by the little boy, he never thought anyone could be more precious than him.And it never ever changed.or the au where soul marks get coloured when they realise they’re in love with their soul mate and Harry has a coloured soul mark, Louis doesn’t.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 273
Collections: Walls Fic Fest





	You can remain unaware (if you want)

**Author's Note:**

> this took me a month of deleting and rewriting a central idea which i dreamt of. it was supposed to he around 3k but now became this 7k baby.
> 
> a huge thank you to the mods for being patient and answering and understanding all my needs. kudos to you
> 
> this is inspired by always you and has subtle undertones of sunflower vol.6 inspos
> 
> the title is a translated lyric
> 
> I might edit the ending one day bc it feels a bit rushed but you never know.

“‘M just saying, Harold, there is no harm in going to a wedding once or twice,” Louis slurs, knocking back whatever was left of his beer. It was the sixth or tenth, he cannot be arsed to count.

Harry, equally plastered as him, nods with his lips pushed out like a fucking goldfish. “Deffo, we should go to a weddin’ or two, clean up and dress proper posh,” he agrees, a hiccup punctuating the end of his sentence.

Now, if Liam, Zayn or even the Irish cunt Niall had been present with the duo, the idea would’ve been thrown out of the window. But luckily—depending on however the fuck you view it—they weren’t and that meant all their stupid ideas could be brought to life.

Like attending his ex boyfriend’s wedding that he had gotten an invite for with Harry. The same Harry who Damien—the infamous ex—had grilled around a million times about his soul mate. Yeah, so, it was an ace plan, still not set in marble or whatever stone but, yeah.

It is not that Louis is a bitter ex, nope, nada, he’s the farthest thing from it, but that doesn’t make him a sage either. Consider it as payback for dumping him while he was driving his mum to the hospital because she was in labour.

Plus, Harry agrees with him. It must’ve not been too bad or evil then. That boy has a heart of gold and is too kind to be exploited by Louis’ partially evil schemes.

Harry extends his hand to snatch a nacho from Louis’ stash all neatly piled up on the napkin. Louis catches his wrist, thumbing over the small, colourful sunflower on the inside of his wrist, coaxing gentle purrs from him.

“S’not a bad idea, yeah?”

“Not at all,” he replies in full sincerity, nacho forgotten, fingers closing around the chilled glass, chugging back another pint, pushing one to him.

He drinks.

//

It is a bad, bad idea.

The wedding part, not so much but drinking, yes. Hell yes.

The next day when Louis wakes up sometime near two pm, he is in various states of undress, feet clad in duckie slippers Liam bought him as a joke, a shirt with sleeves roughly cut off stolen from Zayn and finally, a pair of candy themed boxers he’s sure is Harry’s.

His skull is being constantly hit by a hammer, a sledgehammer perhaps, the pain heavy and present behind his lids, breath stale and stinky from all the alcohol he downed, the lack of water too.

In short, he’s a comedic, disgusting mess.

He brushes his teeth, slow and lethargic, letting the minty foam drip down the sides of his lips before getting too weirded out by it and brushing a bit harder. It makes his gums bleed a tad.

He finds Harry passed out on the couch, a plate beside him teetering precariously on the arm of it, smell of cold greasy food making his stomach grumble.

He picks it up, shoves Harry so hard that he promptly ends up on the floor, picks at the food with his hands.

Harry groans pathetically and tries to pinch his calf from his position on the floor, failing miserably.

Louis thinks he should take pity and offer his calf for a pinch lest the boy blind himself flapping his limbs around.

It doesn’t come to that. Harry sits up and raises a knuckled fist to his eyes. He grouches until Louis shoves a piece of bacon at his face.

Harry accepts it with a yawn. “Time is it?”

“Dunno. All I know is today is some part of Sunday and past noon, and we have no jobs.”

Harry hums and opens his mouth for more bacon.

Near five, Liam turns up at their flat with a bag full of crisps and sweets, chocolate and gummy bears. He takes one look at their greasy, smelly selves and ushers them to shower.

Harry goes first, Louis bangs on the door. “Don’t be a prick an’ use up all hot water, Styles!”

“No promises, Lou!” he yells back but Louis sits down satisfied.

Liam eyes his slippers and Louis kicks his side. “Stop glaring at me slippers, Payno. Get your dirty gaze off ‘em,” he mumbles, kicking them off and folding his legs Indian style.

“I gifted you those,” Liam slowly says, as if he’s having trouble believing that indeed they are his gift.

Louis shoots him an unimpressed stare and rips open a packet of sour cream and onion crisps. “Impeccable deduction, Liam. A plus, mate, should join the FBI.”

Liam’s bound to be lame reply is cut off by Harry running buck naked into the room, hair tied up in a pink fluffy towel.

“Jesus lad, put on some clothes,” Liam groans, hiding his face in his hands.

Louis feeds a handful of crisps to Harry who grins at him with a dimple out and eyes soft.

“Put on some clothes, love,” he softly murmurs, patting his bare arsecheek, stifling a giggle at another of Liam’s drawn out groan.

“Christ, he’s so in love with you, Tommo,” Liam mutters, trying to steal a few crisps and failing, focused on reading the label of the packet.

Louis shoots him a funny look. “Sure you were not the one drinking yesterday, Liam?”

Liam sighs like Louis is insufferable. “I am going to go outside and call for back up. I cannot with you two nutjobs.”

Harry bumbles back into the room with the world’s tiniest pair of shorts, one of Louis’ fitting jumpers that rises up to give sly glimpses of the ferns spread out over his hips.

His curls are damp and Louis’ throat a little dry.

“You’re out of shampoo, Lou. I have that coconut one you like, I set it out,” Harry tells him, teeth sunk into his bottom lip, white cutting on red.

“Thanks, babe,” Louis replies, smile crinkling his eyes.

And the shampoo is indeed set out alongside a bottle of Harry’s conditioner. His heart swells.

Midway through his mini concert, the hot water cuts out, the crashing of their friends becomes clear and so does Niall’s cackle.

In record time Louis scrubs the leftover conditioner and bolts out with a fluffy towel tied around him.

Liam’s words are forgotten.

He steals one of Harry’s jumpers, the wretched burnt orange one, wears one of his own sweatpants and decides to grace their friends, cough, twats, with his presence.

“Fuckers, twats and Haz, how are y’all!” Louis shouts, poorly imitated Southern American accent ringing out.

Zayn throws a bored look his way. “Mighty fine before I saw you mate,” he answers, continuing to scratch Harry’s scalp from where he’s sat by his feet.

“Why did Harry get a special greeting?” Niall indignantly huffs, eyes twinkling in a way that says he is not really mad.

Louis plops down on Niall’s lap. “Cos my dearest Niall, he cooks me hangover brekkie, does my laundry and buys me nice things.”

“Fair enough, mate.”

“Hey! I bought you those slippers you were wearing an hour ago and the snacks!” Liam splutters, flinging himself dramatically down into the armchair which promptly creaks.

Louis hums and stands up. “So, take out or pizza?”

“I can cook, Lou. Just run to the store and get me some cinnamon and eggs,” Harry interrupts.

“Will you make me French toast for dinner?” he eagerly asks.

“If you get cinnamon.”

“Niall, come with me,” Louis orders, kicking away the duckie slippers towards Liam who looks quite dejected.

Niall snorts. “Take Zayn,” he brushes off without sparing him a glance.

“Zee?”

“Buy me a pack?”

“Su—” he’s cut off by Harry’s vicious squeak.

“You swore off fags, Lou.”  
Harry pulls his best puppy eyes and Louis is a weakling. “Heard him, mate,” he weakly says.

“I’ll come with!” Liam selflessly says, sprinting up to get to the door.

Louis purses his lips. “No. You can’t come with. Please stay here.”

“That is rude, Lou,” Liam mumbles, trying to pull the puppy eyes trick but he’s not Harry.

“Take him along, Lou-ee,” Harry adds from his spot beside Niall.

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky Harry loves you more than me,” he grumbles, shoving his feet into his dirty vans a little too harshly.

Liam gulps. “Aw, Tommo, you’re admitting that you love me, a little bit even?”

“If you don’t shut up for the next half hour, I will not hesitate to stuff your mouth with Niall’s socks,” he threatens, wagging a finger at Liam’s face.

Niall is not fazed and that is enough.

“Be nice to him, Louis,” Zayn grumbles, picking up a pack of sour patch kids, pointedly avoiding eye contact with him.

Louis huffs but is marginally calmer. He shuts the door softly because it’s their rented flat and he cannot afford to pay for repairs. He can to be honest but it’s not the point.

“You’re a hunk, Lima.”

“Thanks? I dunno, nice observation?”

Louis laughs, a hahaha, and tacks on, “Good lad, good lad, watch your mouth.”

Out of the blue, he grabs Liam's arm and pushes the sleeve of his coat up, eyes stuck on the golden binoculars.

“You’ve got some secrets up your sleeve, eh?” he wags his eyebrows, scrunching his face up, goal being to embarrass Liam a little and maybe get some details out of him.

Liam finally gives in almost half hour later, still stuck in aisle 3 of Tesco, debating over packs of cinnamon.

“Fine, I’ve yet to tell someone and I am only telling you cos you were a little shit and saw my mark,” he seriously says and Louis nods, arranging his face into one of understanding.

He can be grown up when necessary.  
“When me and Zayn—”

“Zayn and I,” he spits out, saccharine sweet.

Liam grumbles under his breath. “When Zayn and I went to the fire arms display, that goof held up these binoculars from world war two and almost popped a vessel over it,” he pauses, picks up a packet that is almost too much and sets it down.

He makes an impatient move it along motion. Liam huffs but continues. “He was peering at me through the bigger side and all I could think how much I love that idiot. I noticed the colour after coming back to my flat.”

He doesn’t meet Louis’ eyes, instead starts scanning the items. The cinnamon is more than they need.

Louis hums and throws in a pack of watermelon gum. “They help with Harry’s hangover,” he crows, quick to defend himself.

Liam cocks a brow but buys it as well. Louis continues to grill him. “Why did Zayn and you go without taking us along? I’m wounded, Lima.”

“I did ask you, you said you promised Harry a back massage and you were gonna binge watch Chicago Fire with him. Niall told me he had a date with some bird,” he says ticking off each finger.

Louis sticks his tongue out. “In my defense, Harry pulled the puppy eyes and offered to make me tacos.”

Liam snorts. “You’re so whipped. You both are actually.”

“I’ve known him the longest, even before I had a soul mark. Think that’s what makes us extra close,” he slowly says, voice quiet and soft, reflecting back fondly. “And I’m really happy for you. Now we wait for Zayn to play catch up.”

Liam squeezes his arm and walks a little faster making him sprint.

“Dickhead!” he yells, trying to trip Liam even after they’ve entered his and Harry’s flat.

“Louis, leave Liam alone and come help me,” Harry calls out, trying to help Louis be less of a little shit.

Louis grumbles but carries the bags to Harry in the kitchen.

“Did you get me gum?”

“Duh,” he replies, casting Liam a triumphant grin.

Liam scowls and continues being sandwiched between Niall and Zayn.  
Harry bumps his hip against Louis’, dimpling. “Thank you.”

Louis presses a kiss on the underside of his jaw. “Thank you for indulging me.”

By nine they are all sprawled out on the couch, crumbs littering their shirts, watching _Two Weeks Notice_ because Sandra Bullock, with all the snacks Liam hauled over to their flat lying on the scuffed coffee table.

“Liam met his soulmate,” Louis sleepily lets it slip into crook of Harry’s neck, pressing a kiss there.

Harry leans back. “Did you bully him into admitting, Lou?”

“Not at all,” he protests, a yawn tumbling out.

Harry’s chuckle melts into his chest.

“Okay, let’s get you to bed,” he concedes, standing up and pulling Louis up.

“Are you lot staying?” he hears Harry asking but his bed is calling him.

He ungraciously falls face first onto his bed, snuffling and shuffling to warm the sheets beneath him. He wants cuddles.

He keeps dipping in and out of sleep but sometime after the first hour, he feels a pair of arms come around his shoulders and a chest meet his back.

He finds sleep easy after that.

//

Mondays are always dreadful.

Louis wakes up to Harry’s face tucked into his neck, a little bit of drool on his skin, limbs held down pleasantly by his best friend’s own, heat from his body cocooning them.

It is fairly early. If six thirty could ever be considered too early by educational institutions. They can absolutely laze around till seven before it becomes a race against time.

Louis runs his fingers through the sleep tangled curls, watching the way they all spill over his back, glossy chestnut on creamy pale skin.

Harry snuffles and burrows closer— he is overcome with fierce love. As his eyes catch the sunflower on his wrist, he selfishly thanks the universe that Harry isn’t with his soul mate.

He wants Harry to himself a little bit longer.

Around six forty five Harry wakes up with a groan.

“Mornin’, love.”

Harry smacks his lips. “Morning, Lou.”

He snuggles a little more. Louis counts to twenty and gently rises from the bed, bones cracking pleasantly, relaxed and happy.

“C’mon, H, we need to go over your notes too. We never did it last night,” Louis reminds, toothbrush in one hand, waving it around.

Harry groans long and unwilling into the pillow. It is unlike him to not wake up early and be lazy.

After few painful seconds of Louis brushing his teeth without Harry to rub shaving foam on his cheek, he emerges with minty breath to the sight of a flushed Harry.

“Darling, do you feel sick?”

Harry snuffles and weakly nods. “Must be the soul mark.”

Louis scowls. This is news to him. “What do you mean, H?”

Harry sighs long and suffering. “Sometimes the flower kind of burns and aches. I’ve shown it to various doctors, everyone told it is because I am not with my soulmate.”

“I wish your soulmate wasn’t such a dumbass,” he mutters, crouching to brush back the sweaty curls.

Harry’s glare is directed at him. “Me too. He is a total tit, an arse, really.”

He feigns innocence. “You say that like I am the dumb one, H.”

“Might as well be. Don’t you think your soulmate is suffering too? You ought to get your head out of your arse, babe.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let the school know you’re sick. Should I stay?”

“I’ll be fine, Lou. Nothing a nap can’t solve. Don’t ring the school, I don’t need more people bugging me about you,” he mumbles, an arm thrown over his eyes.

Louis snorts but nods.

He gets dressed for work in silence. The outline of skateboard on his arm reminds him of what he doesn’t have yet.

//

He is greeted by a plate of what looks like scones, lots of scones.

Pressing a kiss to Harry’s flour covered cheek, he plops down beside him, hand already outstretched to take one.

Harry swats his hand. “I was grumpy so I baked. You bought too much cinnamon and I had to make cinnamon scones. I wanted to make those cranberry and orange ones. All your fault,” he whines.

Louis indulges him. “I’m so sorry, darling. I promise I won’t buy that much of cinnamon. Can I have a scone now?”

Harry pretends to be huffy but a smile threatens to split his face. “Make me some tea and I might give you some.”

Much to his annoyance, Harry doesn’t let him eat scones for dinner, claiming the ones set aside are for Celine, the sweet old lady that lives two doors down.

“I requested the next Friday off, you should ask the school about your leave too,” he reminds, absently scratching his belly.

Harry gives him a confused scoff of confirmation. “I am supposed to?”

“You seriously forgot what is next Friday?”

He is rewarded with a frightening glare. “I woke up to pain because of my soul mark and I stress baked because we had too much of cinnamon. What makes you think I am a functional human being today?”

He chuckles, reaching out to card a hand through his mess of curls. “Next week is Damien’s wedding, babe.”

Realisation flickers on his face. “Oh, yes. Are we still on?”

“Of course, unless you don’t want to, love.”

“Would feel weird to go as your date to your ex’s wedding ’s all.”

Louis settles against him, fitting his chin over the crown of his head. “We are weird. Get over it.”

Harry’s laughter is his agreement.

Louis feels a warmth bubbling across his chest at the prospect of holding Harry close, telling everyone how lucky he is to have him, how fucking lovely Harry is. He gets giddy at the mere idea.

But his eyes catch the sight of his colourful sunflower, green veins wrapped around the stalk, pale skin making it almost translucent, his heart gives a tight squeeze. It fills him with cold, a longing to have him all to himself.

When Harry sighs warm and content into his neck, he can pretend the cold is gone.

So he plays pretend.

//

Waking up to Harry’s naked form should not surprise Louis as much as it does. The boy’s been roaming buck naked in their flat since day one, even before they had a flat, most of the time spent in their uni dorms he was naked any time of the day when he had no plans.

But it still brings a flush to his cheeks.  
“You should really start wearing more clothes, the flat is cold, Harold,” he tells, gaze never leaving his face.

Harry groans, pushes back his greasy curls. “I’m hot, don’t tell me to wear clothes, Lewis. This is me doing a service to the society by being naked.”

“Sure you are.” His cheeks burn brighter which he miserably tries to hide under the guise of stretching his back.

He feels Liam’s words swirl in his belly, they are uncomfortable and make his hand subconsciously trace his own mark.

“Hey, H, do you think I should call Damien and tell him I’m bringing a date?”

Harry looks up suddenly, startled out of his daydreaming. “Um, yeah. It’ll be nice, I guess? We won’t have to drag an extra chair next to you.”

“Nonsense you would sit on my lap then,” he waves him off, words sinking in a moment later.

He smiles, a little strained around the edges. He has to physically stop himself from pinning Harry to the counter and kiss his sleep soft skin and leave him flustered and fucked to the point where he forgets Louis is not his soulmate and there is a person waiting out for him.

It only gets worse when Harry presses a fleeting kiss to his temple on his way to shower seemingly unaffected by his statement.

His nails leave red crescents on his arm.

Swallowing down the urges feels like swallowing sand and cacti. Sharp needles poking and prodding his insides.

It is starting to seem like a shit idea.

//

Scared out of his mind, he rings his mum to tell her the disastrous plan.

His mum is very much not sympathetic and goes as far as to offer Cynthia’s colouring pens to colour his skateboard.

Louis scoffs at the sarcasm.

“Ma, I know this is a bit of a shitty idea but this is important and it’s Harry we’re talking about. You can’t let your dumb son cost you your favourite son,” he reasons, not even batting a lash at the reasoning resigning himself to the fact that he is actually dumb and maybe a little stupid too.

She sighs heavily, he can hear Edith causing a ruckus. “All of it is true but, Lou, don’t give him hope for something you can’t fulfill. Be careful.”

“Are you encouraging me to kind of crash his wedding?” his eyes bug out of their sockets.

Her laugh is short and open. “I never liked him anyway. Just don’t make him cry on his wedding day.”

His laugh is startled, his mum is really gone bonkers with the kids around.

“Yeah, okay,” he faintly promises, hanging up.

Around one he meets Zayn for lunch at a nearby sandwich place which makes the least shittiest tea in the area, has heavy smell of chips and onion rings lingering.

“Louis,” he nods his head in greeting, sliding on the other side, sleeves of his lavender jumper pushed to his elbows.

Zayn looks effortlessly good. Him and Harry both, but he might be the tiniest bit biased when it comes to Harry.

“Zee,” he greets back, eyes watching out for his mark.

Zayn swats at his nose. “Stop being so weird and tell me what you want.”

He rubs his nose, pout threatening to appear but it won’t do any good, he’s not Harry to coddle him with cuddles and little forehead kisses.

He wants to kiss Harry.

“What’s your soul mark?”

“It’s a lighting bolt,” Zayn drawls out, sticking his elbow out, showing the violet mark dotting his skin among other tattoos.

He fish mouths, finally settling on: “It is coloured.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “It is.”

“Do you know who your soul mate is?” he fishes, dead set on finding them out, for Liam’s sake.

“Liam,” he confirms and Louis about cries on the spot.

He fist pumps the air. “Have you told him about your feelings?”

  
At this question Zayn starts squirming.

He is awkward and he never thought he would see the day when Zayn Malik would turn awkward.

“Not yet? I mean I don’t want to spring it upon him but also like, I’m not sure on how to tell him it either.”

Louis rests his hand on his temple. “Maybe start with asking him out on a date and see how things progress?”

Zayn brightens at that. “For an idiot you’re not so bad at advice.”

Disgruntled by his words, Louis makes a face at him. “I need new friends. All you ever do is call me names and pick on me.”

“That’s because you pick on my soulmate, Lou,” he easily says, finishing the leftover soda and swallowing the last of his sub.

“Fuck you,” he retorts, drinking his own drink, picking at a tomato.

His phone pings with a message from Harry. It’s a picture of two runway models wearing ridiculous clothes with exaggerated ruffles and feathers.

A question mark follows the picture.

 _the mint one but in peach 🍑_ he texts back.

 _has to be custom made then :(_. and, _pot noodles for this week if i do that_.

Louis snorts and thumbs out a reply. _no worries, H, i won’t let u live on a diet of pot noodles even tho it’s tempting ;)_

Obnoxious coughs make his neck snap up. He glares only a little at Zayn and offers a sheepish smile later.

“You are a blind tit sometimes.”

“Zayn,” he starts out, fully intending to tell him his one fucked up plan.

  
Zayn looks sufficiently doubtful and dreading, he mentally pats himself.

“I might have made a stupid decision while smashed,” he relays, slow as to not spook him out, it reminds of him talking to a kitten.

Harry would love a kitten his mind helpfully supplies.

A sharp smack to his arm makes his head snap up at Zayn. “Ouch, fuck you.”

“You wish. What was the incredibly rash decision you made that will 100% come back to bite you in the arse?” Zayn prompts, his face showing how he’d be anywhere but in his vicinity now that he is aware of a bad decision looming above.

He sighs. “I asked Harry to be my date to Damien’s wedding.”

Much to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. “Okay?”

“Well, are you not going to tell me how bad of an idea it is?” he asks, incredulous, desperate for a reaction out of him.

Zayn steals a soggy chip. “No, whatever I say won’t deter you, might as well cheer you on.”

Louis shoves a couple of chips to close his gaping mouth.

“Plus, Harry might be ready to confess after he sees Damien and his soulmate,” he murmurs, as they stand up to leave.

A bitter pang envelopes his traitoirous heart, over Harry who he has no claim but the title of his oldest and closest mate.

It is starting to seem like a bad idea.

//

Instead of designing the posters he was asked to, Louis lets his mind wander over to the earliest memories of him and Harry.

He did something reckless and ended up making Harry cry, a little blondie with missing teeth and ruddy cheeks. He had overcome with guilt and ran to calm him, his own chubby hands wiping away tears from the softest cheeks he’d ever touched.

Harry had smiled at him after he apologised seven times, going as far as to offer his kiwi sticker to the green eyed kid.

“I’m Harry and I am six,” he mumbled, accent a little more posh than Louis’ heavy Yorkshire one.

“My name’s Louis. I am eight. We just moved here.”

And Harry smiled revealing a dimple on his milky cheeks and Louis was helplessly endeared by the little boy, he never thought anyone could be more precious than him.

And it never ever changed.

Not even when they entered adolescence with acne, awkward first boners, hair in new places, among other bits that he never recalls properly.

They’ve always had an intense level of friendship that defies the usual rules. They were co dependent, something Louis begrudgingly agrees about.

And sure he always had a softer corner in his heart for Harry, feelings more stronger that they never ventured into, never gave themselves the comfort of doubt—they always stayed friends, just friends.

All through first girlfriends, sloppy first kisses, uncomfortable and awkward first times, first boyfriends and more.

They were together when they got their soul marks. Harry crying as the sunflower on his arm burnt itself on to his skin, face tucked into his, getting snot all over the collar of his shirt.

The point is, they have always been there for each other since the beginning, even before the soul marks appeared on them at sixteen. Even before they had fully developed into themselves.

And this irrational fear that Harry will want to confess up to his soul mate after seeing Damien and his soul mate together makes his heart bitter.

He has no claim over Harry more than his potential soul mate who Harry had never told him about.

“Louis?” Clara’s voice brings him back to reality.

“Yes?”

“Harry’s in the reception, said he wants to see you,” she says kindly, totally blind to the inferno of emotions unfurling in him.

His palms are sweaty. He is nervous to meet his best friend for fuck’s sake.

Harry’s holding a paper bag and is scrolling through his phone when Louis approaches.  
“Hi, love.”

Harry jumps but quickly calms down seeing him. “Hey. I got you two cranberry orange scones.”

His stomach grumbles eagerly. “This is why you’re my best friend. When did you bake it, didn’t you have classes?”

Harry looks sheepish. “I have a free afternoon and I felt stressed so I baked.”

“You, sir, are hiding something. I’ll get it out of you as soon as I’m home. Thanks for the scone, though.” He leans in to peck Harry’s cheek like it’s the most natural thing ever and his mind short circuits, making his lips linger a bit longer.

He prays Harry didn’t notice.

Harry smiles wide and dimply, skips off with a giggle, leaving a confused as fuck Louis with two mouth watering scones.

His life is a joke at this point.

//

“You got a fucking offer from your dream school and you stress baked cos you didn't know how to resign?” he asks again, for the fifth time—he is still recovering from the bloody shock.

Harry whines, high in his throat. “Yes, I am not very good with these things,” he mumbles, hiding his face in Louis’ shoulder, unintentionally shoving a head full of curls under his nose.

He breathes in, like a creep, and untangles a few curls, gently comforting him. “I can help you draft your resignation if necessary. Did you even accept the job?”

Harry sniffles. “Yeah. I told them I’ll join next year, that's not the issue though.”

“Darling, is moving to London the problem?” he prods, secretly hoping it is. He likes to be the most important person in Harry’s life.

“Partially. London is more expensive than Manchester— I’m gonna have a higher pay, but it is still a lot unless I find another flat mate and there’s too much work and not enough time.”

“H, deep breaths. We’re in this together. We’ll figure out something,” he promises, ignoring the tight knot in his chest.

“I don’t wanna leave you, Lou. I—” he cuts Harry off by a gentle squeeze.

“Haz, this is about your future, not about me or our friendship.”

An angry rumble comes from Harry. “Oh my god, why can’t you see it, Louis? Never mind, I’m going to bed, goodnight.” He stomps away, scowl still firmly set between his brows, mouth pink and down turned.

Like any sane man, he decides to not ponder over it for long and against his better judgment calls Niall. “I need some advice.”

“For that you shoulda called Zayn, not me, mate,” Niall instantly fires back, telly loud in the background.

He sighs miserably. “Let me rephrase. I need some shitty advice.”

Niall’s snark of laughter rings in his ears. “What did you do?”

“Harry’s been acting weird around me, mate. He had a little fit and stormed out on me.” He scratches the stubble on his cheek.

He hums and cheers something unintelligible. “What did you do to piss him off?”

“He was talking about moving to London and told me he didn’t wanna be away from me. I told him his career was more important than our friendship,” he tells, belatedly realising that he has spilled the beans about Harry’s new job without actually spilling anything.

A long sigh and a curse. “You really do have your head high up your arse, mate. You really don’ see it yet?”

“Even you think he’s in love with me?” He asks, mind whirring, heartbeat in his ears.  
Louis is offended slightly at the snort. “Not think, _know_. We all know that poor lad’s in love with you.”

“His soul mark is coloured, Niall. He cannot love me,” he argues weakly, not really able to wrap his mind around the idea.

“Louis, did you ever think that maybe it is coloured—”

“No.” His mind races with too many thoughts, space between his lungs holding no air.

He can see Niall’s scowl through the phone. “Lou, just don’t string him along.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Ni.”

//

Friday rolls around bringing a very poshly dressed Harry.

Rocking a floss pink sheer shirt with a pair of black tailored trousers with a dramatic flare at the end and fitted black blazer, Harry stands pigeon toed and glowing in front of Louis, as if he isn’t looking like he is ripped from pages of a magazine.

He is surely going to pass away over the weekend.

“Is it okay? I spilled tea over the white shirt I was gonna wear.”

Swallowing past the lump of attraction, he jerkily nods. “You look beautiful as ever, darling.”

Harry’s cheeks flush happily and Louis about dies. He wipes his palms down on his jeans, feeling underdressed beside Harry.

“Do you think I should exchange the black blazer for the blue one I wore last year at new year’s celebration?” he huffs, careful not to fuck his quiff up. It had taken him half hour of painful arranging and half a bottle of hairspray to get it the way it is.

Harry hums in lieu of answering. “Exchange the shirt for my polka dotted one. Although it’s white so be careful with that, yeah?”

He rushes inside, eager to escape from Harry’s presence. But, fuck, only one problem, he would be wearing Harry’s clothing. Another bout of sweat soaks his quiff and palms.

The material is starched and stiff, free of creases, freshly ironed. It fit him a little loose around the shoulders and a little snug around his waist.

The looseness only adds to his charm or that is what Harry says as soon as he sees Louis.

Harry straightens out his collar, palms lying flat over his pectorals, heartbeat wild under his finger tips. A rose blush wraps up his face—Louis bites his already chapped lip, the acute pain bringing him back to a bitter reality.

“Let’s go, shall we?” His hand finds Harry’s hip, skin soft under gauzy shirt.

He feels the product styled curls brush the side of his temple. With a lungful of apple and beer shampoo scent ingrained in his brain, he extracts himself away from his side.

The car ride is not awkward much to his relief, they bicker and fight over radio stations, slap each other in the balls when the other is driving.

Somewhere between the first hour and third, the topic of Liam and his soul mark comes up.

“Who is Liam matched to anyway?” he questions, curious and ecstatic.

Louis grins. “Take a fucking guess.”

“Maybe Sophia from work or even better, Zayn!” he claps his hands like a seal.

“Zayn. Zayn’s mark is coloured. Violet and somewhere in that mess of coloured tats.”

“I knew it,” he gloats with glee, clearly chuffed for getting it right.

“It’s a thunderbolt,” he offers the piece of information, already knowing what is to come next.

“ _Thunder bolt and lighting very very frightening_!” he sings, off key, laughter laced with the words, hand finding Louis’ knee.

He is gushing fond, from the bend of his knee, the curve of his bicep, crook of his lips, blushing tips of ears to the knuckles pressed along Harry’s palm.

The journey is fun and banter. All until Harry brings up the semantics of their façade.

“Do you plan on getting pissed?” he starts out, hand now back in his own lap, bottom lip sucked in.

Louis laughs. “Not sure, might down a drink or three. Not sure if I can handle it sober.”

A tentative pat to his thigh to garner his attention. “Did you tell Damien about bringing a date or am I coming as a friend?”

“Of bloody course a date, babe. Reckon we can pull it off?” Louis worries, painfully aware of his own inner turmoil.

An unnecessarily long pause. “Yeah, yeah. We’re gonna be good.”

“I love you, mate.”

He might be imagining it but a flicker of pain shadows over his face. Before he can comment on it, the emotion is gone.

“I love you too, Lou.” comes the reply but it is stilted.

The rest of their drive serves him quiet and a lot of thoughts to filter through, none pleasant than the other.

//

  
Harry spots Damien before he does. Mostly the reason being the whirring thoughts occupying him.

“Oh my god. Damien looks fuckin’ dapper and is that his soul mate? She looks so pretty, Lou!” Harry squeals, slapping at his arm vigorously obviously demanding attention.

Louis squeezes his side, his hand settling low on his back. Harry stills at the contact. His gaze lands on Damien who is looking at his soul mate with intense love and adoration—he wants that too.

Harry drags him along to congratulate Damien being the polite lad as ever, his hand holding Louis’. 

“Damien, you look handsome, mate,” Harry genuinely compliments, fingers tangling themselves with his.

Damien lights up. “Thank you, Harry. Louis, I know we didn’t end on good terms but thank you coming. This means a lot to us,” he says, arm curling around his soul mate.

“I’m Tonya,” she introduces herself, eyes warm and endless.

Harry gushes about almost everything under the sun and Tonya nods along, leaving Damien and Louis to awkwardly smile at each other.

_

The wedding is beautiful. Peaches and soft cream everywhere, it goes on without a hitch. Harry sniffles into his shoulder as they share their vows, tender movements accompanying them.

“I want a wedding like theirs,” Harry whispers, nose stained red, cheeks shining, a veil of longing over his eyes. It is poorly concealed.

He chooses to rub the sunflower rather than give him a reply.

Damien comes to Louis sometime after the lunch and sometime before the reception.

“Lou, hey.” Damien has red icing on his cheek, black hair frizzy and sleeves rolled up to reveal a blue bee.

“Hey. Congrats on the wedding, mate. Tonya and you make a cute couple.”

Damien stares at him, dark brown eyes unwavering, searching for something. “Thanks, man. Finally figured it out, huh?”

“Figured out wha’?” he asks, ears fuzzy from all the champagne he’s been downing.

“The thing about Harry.”

“Eh, what are you talking about lad?”

“You love him.” Damien’s voice is sort of airy and thick.

He makes an affronted noise. “Of course I do. He’s my best mate.”

“Lou, are you still in denial?” A silence stretches thin among them, flashes of Harry’s flower, his smell, his laugh, his eyes fill Louis to the brim.

“I’m in love with him, aren’t I?” he finally settles on, pathetically watching Damien, desperate for confirmation.

Damien laughs. “You are. So gone for him.”

He fishes for his phone, absently waving at his ex’s retreating silhouette. Frantically he scrolls through his and Harry’s photos.

And fuck, he recognises the expression on his face. He looks at Harry like he hung the stars and painted the night sky blue for him.

It is similar to the one Tonya and Damien share. The arse over tits in love look.

There is a sense of urgency nagging at him, niggling at the back of his head, the voice in his head sounding like the mixture of Liam and Niall and Zayn all telling him how in love he is.

Harry is on the dance floor, twirling one of Damien’s sisters, his face surrounded in a glow, hair product free and shirt sticking to his torso, jacket left with Louis.

The words are heavy in his mouth, his tongue feels thick.

To wash away the feeling, he order shots, firmly set on forgetting the tightness of his chest, the fire erupting in his lungs and the imminent need to tell Harry how in love he is.

The night is a blur of flames down his throat, spreading to his elbows, his ears and heart. Splotches of bubblegum pink, fairy floss, rose water, kiwis and sunflowers taunt him.

Visions of green eyes haunt him till he blacks out.

//

He wakes up to a loud pounding his head, inside of his mouth tasting like something had died in there, smell of dried sweat and spilt alcohol clear.

In short, he smells rank and probably looks like something a dog had chewed and threw up.

A yawn tumbles out of his lips, the bad breath immediately beckoning bile to the back of his throat, the crappy taste stuck to his palate, along with a hair or two.

He is slow to take in his surroundings. He is sure he is in the room that they rented for the weekend. The other bed is made, only a rumpled pillow the sign of anyone sleeping there.

Before he can think more, his stomach lurches and he runs to puke his guts out. Braving to stand up, he rinses his mouth with sink water and peeks at himself.

His eyes are red rimmed, a mosquito bite or two on his left cheek, five o’ clock shadow dusting his jaw and hair sticking out in random places.

His mouth still tastes bad. In the pursuit of his toothbrush does he notice, notice the silver skateboard on his arm, coloured and outline thickened.

The door beeps, indicating Harry’s arrival.

Still shock ridden, Louis pointedly ignores the panic flaring up in him and leisurely brushes his teeth.

“Lou?” he hears his name being called, and pops his head out of the bathroom to direct a foamy smile at Harry.

Harry’s eyes soften. “I ordered us breakkie and got some medicine for the headache.”

A hasty thumbs up later, Louis takes the quickest shower he can and belatedly realises that he has no clothes with him.

There are towels hung up but they cover only so _much._ It won’t cover his mark—the one which he is currently studying and stroking gently.

It filled out for Harry. A confirmation to how much he is in love with Harry.

With a burst of adrenaline and anxiety, he steps out of the bathroom, finding a half naked Harry folding his stinky clothes into a separate bag.

“You were off your face, last night. Had to drag your arse all the way up here,” he tells Louis, voice oddly softer.

“I love you,” he blurts out, mind blanking out.

Harry freezes mid fold, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. He blinks slow and heavy.

“What?” he questions not sure if he’s heard it right.

“I love you. Like I’m arse over kettle in love with you,” he breathes out, hand outstretched to show the little silver skateboard.

Harry’s face crumples, he about starts to cry. “Fuck. About time you realised, you tit.”

Louis is not above shedding a few tears of relief. “How long?”

“Since you gave me the kiwi sticker I think,” Harry answers, voice hoarse, clothes now abandoned, instead standing near to him.

Louis surges up to tangle his fingers in the silky curls and leans in to kiss Harry the way he has been yearning to since forever.

“I was so stupid, H. God, I am so fucking in love with you,” he murmurs against his lips, watching the redness spread along his torso, fitting between hollows of his ribs.

Harry keens. “You were so dumb. I was so gone for you, fuck, I still am.”

“My baby. My Harry,” he cries and keeps kissing him, until he cannot breathe and need to pull away.

After Louis looks down at the opening towel, he screeches and hurries to get dressed, Harry—his soul mate’s— laughter following him.

Maybe it is not such a bad idea after all.

//

Harry just grins whenever he aligns the sunflower to Louis’ skateboard, never telling him that those were the symbols from early days of theirs.

Maybe one day Louis will remember how his skateboarding had crushed Harry’s lone sunflower and smile along with him.

They will marry some day, have kids of their own, maybe a little garden with a patch of sunflowers while Louis teaches their kids skateboarding.

They will watch Zayn and Liam get married, Niall finally settle down with a woman of his own, watch Sandra Bullock on telly and eat french toast for dinner.

They will learn each other’s bodies like their own.

All someday in future but for now, he is content in holding Harry’s hand and nurse his hangover.

Harry smiles at him with unadulterated love and Louis cannot remember the last time how he ever thought there was somebody else.

Maybe to realise his love, all he needed was a pint or five, just like all the bad decisions had needed.

This time it was the best he could ever want.


End file.
